


Movie Night

by CornishKid



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Awkwardness, In-Universe RPF, M/M, Movie Night, Mutual Pining, hobbit fetish (sort of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2404853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CornishKid/pseuds/CornishKid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, in an attempt to make his flatmate more cultured, forces Sherlock to sit through the first Hobbit movie. Sherlock has an unexpected reaction...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hobbit Fetish

**Author's Note:**

> A response to my own take on the trope bingo challenge posted on "Let's Write Sherlock." The first of 21 fics that I'm going to write based on that challenge.

It started with a case (it usually does.) Victim was a forty-five year old secretary with a string of of lovers (thirteen, to be exact). Husband found out, strangled her with an electrical cord (obvious).

I had just deduced all the details of the case in front of the Yard... was waiting for John to interject his (now routine) bout of praising at my cleverness... but it never came. I looked around the room. Where  _was_ John? And then I spotted him: he, Lestrade, and (for God's  _sake_ ) Anderson were off in the corner of the sitting room  _giggling._

"What's so funny?" I sneered, more irritated than I had reason to be. I wondered briefly if I'd forgotten something to do something mundane (Quick Check: Trousers on and zipped; no meal since Thursday, so likelihood of food stuck between teeth was minimal; hair combed) before I realized that the three of them weren't even looking at me.

" _Hobbit_ fetish," Lestrade squawked. " _Brilliant_ Anderson!"

The three of them guffawed loudly. I blinked.

"I don't understand --"

"Her lovers --" John began to explain, then he was briefly overwhelmed by another laughing fit, "--sorry. You said her lovers -- they were all short with unusually large and hairy feet --"

"Yes," I confirmed, still not comprehending the humor. "As made evident by the pattern of disarray on the sheets and the shoes by the front door --"

"Yeah, okay, Sherlock," John interrupted. "Short men, though? With  _large hairy feet_?"

I blinked again.

"Good God," Anderson groaned. "Don't tell me he doesn't  _get_ it!"

"Excuse me if I find it more necessary to be able to identify body hairs at a crime scene than to be able to pick up on your ridiculous societal references," I quipped. "Honestly, Anderson, and you call yourself a forensics expert."

"Easy, Sherlock," Lestrade said as Anderson's expression turned sour. "You solved it, yeah? We can take it from here. How about you boys get an early night?"

I stormed off irritably, shucking my gloves as I went. John was mumbling apologies to the team behind me. I ignored him.

* * *

 

John was (mercifully) silent for the cab ride back to Baker Street. He probably picked up on the fact that I was angry with him (although I wasn't entirely sure why that was). As soon as the cab stopped, I fled up the stairs to the flat, leaving John behind to pay. I didn't bother to remove my coat or scarf before flinging myself onto the sofa in a ball. Several seconds later, I heard John's even footsteps on the stairs. He was trying to keep his feet steady, then. He was anticipating a fight...

"Want some tea?" he asked politely from the door.

I glanced up from my sulk on the sofa to look at him. He was watching me, one eyebrow raised, waiting for a response as he hung his coat up.

"Fine," I sniffed. Then turned around to resume sulking.

I listened to the sounds of John puttering around in the kitchen for a few minutes, confused. He was behaving so normally -- as if he weren't bothered by my irritation with him. 

He set a mug of tea on the table next to my head and then crossed to the television. I heard him open the DVD player, and I raised my head to look at him.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Thought you might want to get the joke," he said as he popped a disc into the player. "Mind you, it's not as good as the book, but you're intent on not reading anything that won't serve you on a case --"

"What makes you think I want to watch a film adaptation? The same principles apply."

John shrugged and crossed to sit by my feet.

"I'm in the mood to watch it now," he said with finality. "You can stay or leave."

He turned his attention to the screen, and blew softly over his mug to cool it down before taking a drag. I rolled my eyes and turned my face into the sofa.

"If Anderson made the joke, there's no way it can be that funny," I said.

"Nah, it was still hilarious," said John. The previews began to play.

"You could just tell me what a hobbit is," I suggested.

"I told you, I'm in the mood to watch this movie. If you're so curious, you can stick around to find out."

With a groaning sigh, I forced myself into a sitting position and grabbed my tea from the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John smirk.

"Shut up," I snapped.

"Didn't say anything," John replied neutrally.

As soon as the menu card appeared, he pressed the 'play' button on the remote.

"' _My dear Frodo_...'"

" _That's_ a hobbit," said John.

I raised my eyebrows at the old figure puttering around on the screen.

"Ellen Prism's lovers were hardly that ancient, John," I said. "I don't understand the connection at all."

"Christ, Sherlock," said John. He sounded amused and exasperated. "He's old in this scene. They'll do a flashback in a bit -- but the part about being short and having big hairy feet,  _that's_ what Anderson was talking about."

There was a big dramatic scene with dwarves and a dragon. I wasn't really paying attention to the story -- it was inconsequential, and I wasn't in the mood to have to delete it later -- but I found myself nonetheless enjoying the quiet companionship that came with sitting on the sofa with John.

" _...and nothing unexpected ever happened."_

"There, see," said John. "Young hobbit."

I had just taken a large gulp of tea, which I promptly choked back up upon seeing the actor's face appear on the screen.

John looked over at me.

"All right?"

"F-fine," I coughed. I stared hard at the actor on the screen, feeling my cheek's flush. "He --um -- he looks a bit like you."

That was a complete understatement (hate those... yet I couldn't bring myself to contemplate why I'd become embarrassed enough to downplay my reaction). The actor playing Bilbo (was that the correct name?) bore an uncanny resemblance to John, even down to the stern furrow in his brow when the wizard mentioned an "adventure." I'd seen that furrow hundreds of times, being that it'd usually been directed at me.

John chuckled.

"You're not the first person to tell me that," he said. "This bloke was an actor on  _The Office_... Sarah and I watched that a few times together. She said the same thing."

I hummed a non-committal sound that John must've taken as a form of agreement. 

"I don't see it, personally," he said.

 _Because you're an idiot_  I thought to myself.

We watched most of the film in silence... a silence that was only broken by John's occasional chuckle. I caught him glancing over at me every so often (probably to see if I'd caught on to the humor) but I was preoccupied with John's doppelganger on the screen... and my (rather embarassing)  _physical_ reaction to said doppelganger.

 _Hobbit fetish_.

That wasn't it, surely. The old hobbit in the prologue had done nothing to awaken the faint stirrings of arousal that were now pooling in my gut, nor had the younger dark-haired one (Freda? Frolo?) It was something to do with Bilbo... specifically, who Bilbo reminded me of...

I squashed that thought into a tiny ball and shoved it deep into the dungeon of my Mind Palace before it could fully formulate.

 _Breathe_ , I instructed myself furiously.  _You haven't made things weird yet. Everything's manageable so far. John just thinks you're interested in the movie... pay attention to the plot. There, that's it. Trolls -- the fat one looks like Mycroft_. I laughed out loud -- at the same time as John. Apparently, something funny had happened. Good timing.  _This won't be difficult. Only an hour or so more_...

I would've made it, too. If it hadn't been for the blasted climax when Bilbo sprung out from the burning trees, sword in hand, screaming wildly and plunging his weapon into the heart of the Warg.

_John, face stony, jaw set, lunging out from behind a bush -- gun in hand, his biceps flexing as he raises it to eye level -- dog tags glimmering over his broad chest --_

I gulped and pulled my knees closer to my chest. In my trousers, my normally dormant prick had begun to throb to life.

John turned to look at me.

_Don't make eye contact. Don't breathe. Look at the screen, not at John..._

"Alright, Sherlock?" John asked, concerned. "You're not usually the type to get jumpy during a film."

"Fine," I said, probably too harshly.

John, mercifully, shrugged and resumed watching. I, meanwhile, squeezed my arms around my shins and desperately willed my erection to flag. Like every other part of me, though, it was stubborn.

The ten minutes it took to reach the credits were the longest of my life.

Afterwards, John yawned and stretched. Then he picked up the remote, turned off the power and stood to take our mugs to the kitchen. When he'd finished, he stood in the doorway, looking at me.

"What did you think?" he asked.

"It was... not unpleasant," I said quietly.

John rolled his eyes.

"It'd kill you to actually enjoy something, wouldn't it?" he said.

I shrugged, then tightened the grip on my legs.

John -- clever John -- saw this.

"You -- erm -- alright?" he asked slowly. "You've been a bit off."

"Fine," I said.  _Too quickly._

"Sherlock, did you get  _scared_?"

"I said I'm fine, John!" I snapped.

John snorted. He was irritated now.

"Fine," he shot back at me. "I'm going to bed. I suggest you don't stay up to late."

I listened to him stomp up the stairs and slam the door to his bedroom. I didn't move, however, until I'd heard the creak of his bed-springs. Once I was sure he was in bed, I uncurled my legs, wincing slightly as blood began to circulate through them again, creating an unpleasant tingling throughout my lower extremities. There was one area, however, that tingled with a different kind of energy. I glared down at the prominent bulge in my trousers. I would have to masturbate, I knew. If ever I sustained an erection for more than fifteen minutes, it would not go away on its own. The whole procedure was tedious, and could take hours without appropriate materials to occupy my mind.

The movie case on the coffee table caught my eye. Upstairs, there was a creaking noise as John rolled over in his bed.

I frowned. Wanking to John's movie might be considered "a bit not good." The idea sent a shiver down my spine... an indication that the process wouldn't take long, at least. As quietly as I could, I crossed to the DVD player to retrieve the movie, then grabbed John's laptop and headphones on the way to my bedroom.


	2. Here There Be Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock, did you have a wank to The Hobbit last night?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline of the series has kind of been thrown out the window for this fic... An Unexpected Journey wouldn't have been released on DVD at the time that Sherlock jumped in TRF, and Desolation of Smaug would have come out in theaters during the hiatus. However, if you're willing to put those facts aside and bear with me, I'd appreciate it :-)

"Sherlock, have you seen my copy of  _The Hobbit_?" I asked as I rummaged through the movies on the shelf.

"Hmm?" was Sherlock's reply from the kitchen.

" _The Hobbit_ ," I repeated. "We watched it last night? Or have you deleted that already?"

"Probably."

I glanced over at where my flatmate sat perched at the kitchen table, peering into the microscope. The chance that he was actually paying attention to the conversation was very slim.

"I could've sworn I left it in the player," I went on.

"Obviously you didn't," was Sherlock's reply.

Sherlock didn't see my eye roll. No matter, I chucked it up to a lost cause anyway. The DVD would turn up eventually. I decided to write up our latest case on the blog, but my laptop was nowhere to be seen either.

"I suppose you confiscated my laptop again," I said.

Sherlock didn't reply. One look at him told me he'd passed from half-interested replies into total lack of awareness. I strode right past him to the master bedroom. Sure enough, my laptop was there, half-hidden among the tangle of sheets... along with my headphones and copy of  _The Hobbit._ The case lay on Sherlock's bedside table, right next to a box of tissues and a bottle of hand lotion. It was empty. The disc, I discovered upon opening the computer, was queued up to the fiery tree-battle sequence.

Frowning, I popped the disc from the drive and deposited it back into its case. When I returned to the kitchen a moment later, Sherlock hadn't moved from his position.

"Sherlock," I said.

No response. I cleared my throat.

"Sherlock," I repeated.

" _What_?" he snapped, jerking his head up. "These mold samples are at a very critical stage --"

He froze when he saw me standing in the doorway to his room, laptop and DVD case in hand.

"Sherlock," I said for the third time. "What were you doing with my laptop and movie last night?"

For fuck's sake, Sherlock blushed. Actually  _blushed_.

"None of your business," he snapped quickly.

"It's my laptop, Sherlock," I countered. "My  _movie_. Of course it's my business."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He dropped his gaze, though, apparently unable to look me directly in the eye.

Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place.

The case last night... Sherlock's reaction to the movie... his refusal to move once it had finished...  _the lotion and the tissues on the side table_...

"Sherlock, did you have a wank to  _The Hobbit_ , last night?" _  
_

Sherlock scowled.

"I hardly feel I need to share that sort of information with you, John --"

"Bollocks," I said. "You steal my laptop every other day. You've probably deduced how often I toss one off in the shower --"

"The bathroom walls aren't as thick as you think --"

"Whatever," I interrupted, waving my hand to silence him. "You were turned on last night... that's why you were so touchy."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

"I -- I found myself developing an erection towards the end of the film, yes."

I shifted awkwardly.

"Huh," was all I could say in response.

"Oh, don't be obtuse, John," Sherlock snarled. "I had an erection, I took care of it. It's hardly an abnormal circumstance. As you've already pointed out, I've had to listen to you 'toss one off' in the shower more times than I care to --"

"Okay, okay," I said quickly, setting my laptop down on the table. "I didn't mean to -- it's just, I didn't think you -- you've never shown any interest in anyone except Irene, so I just thought --"

"I get erections," said Sherlock defensively. It was almost a pout. The childish nature of it made me laugh, which made Sherlock glare.

"Sorry," I apologized. "Of course you do... I just wouldn't have pegged you for one who found fantasy adventure films to be prime wanking material."

If possible, Sherlock blushed even further. I felt bad, suddenly, wondering if I'd said something insensitive. The details of the case the night before came flooding back to me... the woman with the "hobbit fetish."

"Oh," I said quietly. "Was it -- do you -- are you turned on by hobbits?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Like the woman from the case last night," I explained.

"No," said Sherlock slowly. "I do not normally find myself aroused by short, hairy men with large feet."

"'Not normally --'" I repeated, and then another realization dawned on me.

My eyes must have gone wide, because Sherlock scowled again and barked, "Don't read too much into it, John."

"You said -- the actor who played Bilbo --"

"John --" said Sherlock warningly.

_He -- um -- he looks a bit like you._

I cleared my throat loudly.

"Right," I said, composing myself. "I'm just -- I was going to type up last night's case."

Sherlock stared at me coldly.

"You do that," he said.

I picked up my computer and walked as steadily as I could to the living room.

"And John," Sherlock called.

"Yeah?" I asked, not daring to look at him.

"If you so much as mention the words 'hobbit fetish' in that write up, I will strangle you," he said.

His bedroom door slammed before I could reply.

* * *

 

There are few things that Watsons pride themselves on. One of those things is the ability to pretend that everything is completely normal when, in reality, everything is reaming out of control. Mum was able to do it for years after dad left, all the while drinking herself into an early grave. When Harry first came out to her, her first words were, "Who wants biscuits?"

So ignoring the fact that Sherlock had jerked off to an actor who looked like me, thereby admitting his attraction to me by proxy proved surprisingly easy. It was no trouble for me at all to continue offering tea. No problem whatsoever to scold Sherlock for leaving body parts in the fridge next to the leftover risotto. And it was no hassle to chase after him during cases and ensure he didn't get banged up too badly.

Sherlock wasn't having an easy time of it, though. That was clear.

Under normal circumstances, I could tolerate Sherlock's rude behavior. Most of the time, I found it endearing. After The Confrontation (as I'd taken to calling it in my mind) even  _I_ couldn't stand to be in the same room as him for more than five minutes at a time. About a week after the hobbit-lover case, he snapped at me for breathing too loudly (not unusual, apart from the fact that I'd been in my room at the time). The next morning, he threw a plate of toast at the wall when I'd tried to get him to eat. Not long after that (after I'd called Greg  _begging_ to put us on a case) he flinched when I tried to mend a cut over his eyebrow.

"Honestly,  _John_ ," he hissed, "the burglar's knife hardly scratched me."

"You might need stitches, Sherlock," I argued. "Just let me look --"

As soon as my gloved hands touched his skin, he jumped.

"I don't need your help!" he roared, and then he limped quickly off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Frustrated, I kicked the table. Mrs. Hudson cried indignantly from downstairs, which prompted me to call out an apology. Wincing at the throbbing in my foot, I hobbled over to the desk to write up the latest case. After five minutes of staring blankly at the computer screen, though, I gave up on that endeavor.

Sherlock wouldn't be content to let the issue go. That much I could tell. He'd continue being nasty until the two of us came to blows with one another. I didn't want to lose Sherlock over something like this. I wasn't gay, either, so a relationship with Sherlock was out of the question.

_What would a friend do?_

I opened up my browser and began typing away, hoping this crazy plan of mine would work.

* * *

 

When Sherlock came into the living room the next morning, I pretended to be busy. I ignored the way he scowled in my direction. After he'd settled himself down with an experiment, I cleared my throat nonchalantly, collected the papers from the coffee table, and strode to the kitchen to set them down in front of his microscope.

He glanced down at the pages, and then back up at me.

"What are these?" he demanded.

"Tickets," I said simply. "To the cinema. Tonight. Want to go?"

He looked down at the papers again; I watched as he registered the title.

" _The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug_ ," he said quietly. Then he swallowed hard. "John, I hardly think --"

"Sherlock, you've been a prick lately," I said bluntly. His mouth snapped shut. "I know it's been hard for you -- Oh, grow up, would you! -- and I've tried to be as sympathetic as possible, but you've no right to take out your frustration on me."

Sherlock swallowed again.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, not meeting my eyes.

"I think you need an outlet," I said. "Something to channel your feelings... or desires, or whatever this is." I waved my hand generally in his direction.

"You think you can cure me of being aroused by you by accompanying me to a theater and watching an actor who shares your likeness in the star role of an epic action film?"

When Sherlock put it that way, I found myself starting to doubt the logic of my plan. I shook my head and barreled past his contradictions.

"I  _think_ ," I said, "if you make these fantasies about  _him,_ it might help you to alleviate the tension you've felt the last couple of weeks. It might make things more bearable."

Sherlock looked doubtful. I sighed.

"Look, I care about you, Sherlock," I said. "You're my best friend. But I don't feel  _that_ way about you... I don't want to lose you, and I can't give you that kind of relationship."

"I never said I wanted --"

"I know," I interrupted. "Let me finish: I also feel like a right fuck-up for not being able to return those feelings, and I want to try to help you deal with them, okay?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and then he nodded his head.

"All right," I said. "Seven o'clock tonight."

* * *

 

Halfway through the day, I was tempted to call the whole thing off. Tell Sherlock he'd been right. Offer to be moved out within the week. These thoughts came as I sat on my bed, staring at my wardrobe and thinking to myself,  _What do you wear when you're about to take your flatmate to the movies to help him get off to your doppelganger?_

"John?" Sherlock called from the bottom of the stairs. "Are you ready? It's nearly six --"

"Yeah, be there in a minute," I replied. I grabbed my most unassuming jumper from the top of the pile and tugged it over my head.

Sherlock was eyeing me cautiously as I descended the stairs.

"You're having second thoughts," he accused.

"No, I'm not," I lied. "Let's go."

Not another word was spoken between the pair of us as we got into the cab and drove off through the chilly December air. The pair of us were resolutely silent all the way to the cinema. I exchanged a few words with the ticket collector before we (without conversation) made our way to the theater and took our seats. Neither of us even glanced at the other as the lights dimmed and the previews began playing.

I couldn't pay attention to the film. Especially not when Bilbo's face appeared on the screen and I felt Sherlock stiffen beside me. I expected to be uncomfortable with his presence, possibly even disgusted at the idea that he might be thinking perverse things about me. Instead, I felt intensely curious. I wanted desperately to know what was going on in his head.

I was in for the most unpleasant shock when Bilbo entered the mountain and awoke the dragon.

" _Well_ thief.  _I smell you. I hear your breath. I feel your air..."_

Everything turned to shit.

"John?" Sherlock whispered beside me.

His voice,  _identical_ to the voice of the dragon, was laced with concern. I nearly jumped from my seat.

"If this is too strange," Sherlock said lowly, "we can --"

"Shut up and watch the movie," I growled.

Sherlock complied. I sank further into my seat, hoping the prickling of arousal I'd felt wouldn't develop into a full hard-on.

" _So tell me, thief: how do you choose to die?"_

So much for that wish.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and drew the corners of my jacket down across my lap, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice. Who was I kidding? This was  _Sherlock_ I was trying to hide from.

" _I am fire. I am death_."

Oh, God. I may have whimpered. And then tried quickly to disguise it as a cough. Sherlock turned his head to stare at me, his eyes wide.

" _What have we done?"_

 


	3. Deep Breath Before the Plunge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A creaky bedspring. Nothing to be alarmed about -- John was preparing for bed upstairs. I didn't think anything of it.  
> Then, a low, soft moan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long update -- I got caught up with school and a couple of my other fics. Also... the rating has gone up... cough... cough... Anyway, here we go!

John refused to speak to me for the entire cab ride home. I wasn't able to figure out why he'd been so tense at the end of the film. He'd walked out of the theater as soon as the credits began to roll; he didn't even bother to wait for me to catch up.

This entire experiment had turned out to be an utter disaster.

I couldn't help but feel responsible. John had only been trying to help -- but the whole thing had been too awkward for him to deal with. I felt like trying to crawl inside of myself. Our friendship was very obviously ruined, all because I couldn't keep my feelings for him tucked away.

Sitting through the movie itself hadn't been so bad -- not that I'd noticed, anyway. In away, it had been relieving to know that John knew what was going on in my mind. It had even been thrilling, in a way, to know he wasn't bothered by it.

That's what I'd  _thought_ , anyway. Obviously, I'd gotten it wrong.

I attempted to start a conversation with John several times during the ride home. He'd respond with a single word, sometimes only a grunt. I gave up before we'd gone more than a couple of blocks. So commenced what seemed to be the longest taxi ride of my life... including ones with serial killer cab drivers.

John bolted out of the car as soon as we came to 221b -- leaving me to pay (usually that's my move). I followed him quietly up the stairs, dreading the conversation I knew I was going to have to face.

"John--" I whispered quietly as I stepped into the room. He was hanging up his jacket.

"Bit tired," John replied. He wouldn't meet my eye.

"Please, John," I began again, "I'm sorry for all of this. I can -- I can leave for a few days, if that'd be easier for you..."

That made John stop.

"What?" he demanded, squaring his shoulders towards me.

"Or longer," I amend. "However long it takes for me to get over this --" I gestured vaguely towards the space between us. "I understand it puts you in a difficult position --"

"Sherlock, I don't want you to go anywhere," John assured me firmly.

"But I thought --"

"Look, I -- the movie just got me a bit riled up..." John swallowed, and continued in a lower voice. "They... they botched it... ruined the book, is all."

"Oh."

My voice, I noticed, was laced with disappointment. Interesting. Somehow John being completely unaffected by my plight feels worse than him outright rejecting me.

"Anyway, I'm exhausted," John went on. "Think I'm going to turn in early."

"Alright," I answered.

He bounded up the stairs without another word. I stood in the silent living room for several more minutes before hanging up my own coat and scarf. This whole situation had become entirely hateful. I looked all around the living room for something to occupy myself with; there were no pending experiments for me to take care of, no cold cases to investigate for Lestrade, no books worth reading, no movies worth watching without John in the room to explain the terrible plotlines... nothing whatsoever left to do except go to bed. With a sigh, I trudged off to my room to begin preparing for sleep.

I was changing into my pajama bottoms when I first heard the sound.

A creaky bedspring. Nothing to be alarmed about -- John was preparing for bed upstairs. I didn't think anything of it.

Then, a low, soft moan.

I froze, my ears straining. I'd been imagining things, surely. After a moment of hard listening, I shook my head, and retreated to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

When I had returned to my room and slipped under the covers, I heard the sound again.

Creaky bedspring, low moan.

Again, I went rigid -- my ear was quirked towards the ceiling, my head raised a few inches of my pillow as I struggled to make out another sound. The moan came again, slightly louder. Definitely John's.

My heart felt as if it were going to pound out of my ribcage. John was  _masturbating_. I didn't need excellent deductive prowess to figure that one out. What I couldn't discern was  _why?_ John hardly ever wanked in his room, he always opted for the shower. If he  _did_ use his own bed, he would only do so when I was out on a long case or playing my violin.

There was a low, persistent throb starting in my groin as I continued to listen in on John's ministrations.

John was breaking his routine, then. Something had happened that had made him aroused in the last couple of hours... something to do with the movie?

Whatever it was, it was making me hard.

 _Achingly_ , painfully so.

Throwing the last of my dignity out the window, I reached down in to my pajama pants and grasped my shaft, letting out an involuntary hiss at the contact.

Upstairs, there was another creak.

I gave my cock one stroke and winced at the friction -- too dry. Quickly, and with one ear listening for John's movements upstairs, I divested myself of my clothing, flung the sheets of of myself, and reached for the lotion bottle by my bedside table.

By the time I'd lathered myself up, the creaking upstairs had turned rhythmic. John's moans increased as well -- I could tell he was trying (and failing) to be quiet.

My mind was flooded with images of John -- what he must be doing to himself upstairs. I imagined him running his hand teasingly up and down the length of his shaft, starting at the base then traveling up to the glistening tip. The John in my imagination added a little twist of his wrist at the top of the stoke... a twist that I mimicked on my own cock. A zing of pleasure shot up my spine, causing me to gasp.

In my mind, John was stroking himself faster now, which correlated with the noises coming from real-life John's bedroom. There was a flush spreading across his skin (I could picture his bare chest and abdomen clearly in my mind) and his eyes had gone slightly hooded as he lost himself to his own pleasure.

My breath was coming in pants now. There was a tight band of pressure coiling in the base of my abdomen. My testicles were tightening in anticipation of release. I stroked myself faster... faster... my hand was nearly a blur on my erect shaft.

The John in my imagination suddenly went rigid -- his entire body taught like the strings of a bow. Upstairs, the creaking ceased and there was a moment of silence. Then John (I wasn't sure if it was the real one, or the one in my head) let out a high whine as his orgasm gripped him.

The hand on my cock stilled as my sac tightened -- everything was suspended for a moment -- and then my cock began to pulse as pleasure erupted from the base of my spine and then outwards throughout my entire body. I gasped quietly, making sure not to add vocal sound lest John hear what I was up to. My cock pulsed for several seconds, jetting warm white fluid onto my abdomen. My eyes fluttered closed as the jolts of pleasure lessened into a dull tingling sensation.

Almost absently, I reached for some tissues off of the bedside table to wipe myself off. I was very groggy, and incredibly confused. What had gotten John so worked up?

Yawning, I tossed the used tissues onto the floor (I promised myself to clean them up in the morning) and pulled the covers up over myself. I'd be sure to ask John in the morning.

* * *

 

"Morning."

I'd made certain to be up before John -- which wasn't a difficult task on the weekends. He liked to sleep in on days when he wasn't called at the surgery. He came down the stairs, fully dressed, to find me sitting in my chair, pretending to read a book.

He looked taken aback.

"Er -- good morning. You're up early."

"Oh, you know, seize the day and all that nonsense," I replied mildly.

"Right," said John, blinking. "Well, I'm making toast and tea. Want some?"

"Yes, thank you."

John nodded again, frowning. Something about my response had stumped him... _ah_. I wouldn't normally thank him.

"It's not going to make itself," I quipped at him.

John huffed, rolled his eyes, and made his way on to the kitchen. I'd averted his suspicions for the time being.

We ate breakfast in silence, both sat in our respective chairs. John was glancing over the morning paper, and I was still pretending to read. Really, though, I was watching him over the top of the paper, looking for any signs of frustration that had been present the night before. But he seemed calm, collected. A good wank had done him a world of good, then.

"So," I began conversationally, "what did you think of the movie?"

John stiffened.

"Why?"

"You said last night that you didn't like it," I went on. "In fact, you were rather touchy about it --"

"Yeah, well, I like the book. Don't think they did a good job of it."

I nodded.

"Is that all?" I pressed.

John tossed the paper aside and glared at me.

"Look, Sherlock," he snapped, "I don't know what you're getting at --"

"I'm not _getting_ at anything --" I interjected.

"No, no," said John, and he raised a finger to jab in my direction. "You're not going to do that. You're not going to sit there all high and mighty and deduce me --"

"I'm not deducing you, John, I'm trying to have a conversation --"

"What do you want to know, Sherlock?" John demanded. "You've obviously got something on your mind --"

"Fine!" I snapped, slamming my book shut. "I'd like to know what you were masturbating to last night."

The color drained from John's face.

"I -- I -- that's none of your business!" he cried.

"You made me explain when you caught me with your movie," I countered. "And then, I might add, you forced me to sit through the  _sequel_ to said movie to help me get over my infatuation with you. So pardon me, John, but I believe it is my --"

"It was the fucking dragon, alright!"

I stopped, mouth still open from my response, to gawk at John.

"The  _dragon_?" Was John confessing to some sort of bestiality obsession?

"The dragon's voice," John said. He refused to meet my eyes.

"The dragon's voice aroused you," I said slowly, trying to comprehend.

"Yes, you great twat, because it reminded me of  _your_ voice."

I blinked. Many times. I was positive that the hard drive of my brain had been compromised.

" _My voice_."

" _Yes."_

John's jaw was clenching and unclenching now, as were his fists.

"I think we should forget all about this," he said. "Pretend it all never happened --"

"But John --"

"No!" John yelled. Now he was staring at me, his eyes filled with such an intense fury that I couldn't help but balk under his gaze. "We are  _not_ discussing this. I was turned on by the dragon's voice, yes. They sexualized the fuck out of that character -- and it's a complete coincidence that it happened to sound like yours. You're going to forget about whatever feelings you have for me -- chalk it up to a crush you have on that actor -- and we're going to continue to be flatmates who  _don't_ have any type of attraction to one another, because  _I'm not gay_."

"I  _know_ , John," I hissed. "You do such a _splendid_ job of reminding me every five minutes --"

"Sod this," John said, rising to his feet. "I'm going out for some air. I need to think without you accosting me every ten seconds --"

He stormed out of the flat without grabbing his coat before I had a chance to respond.

 


End file.
